3,139 Day Tantrum

Immediately after Luke died my London therapist explained…
”Well, yes, you see, your brain has no filing system for ‘your kid is dead’”
No shit! Veronyka.

Today, 3,139 days later, my LA therapist repeats “there’s no filing system for… ’”
That fact still fires around my brain and body like a gargantuan demented pinball.

Sometimes it settles in a makeshift slot for a period of serenity.
This is when I see it all clearly and can function, only to be rejected randomly with force, violently bouncing off various bumpers throughout my brain (and body).

Pain and electric circuits whir.
Lights strobe in the form of flashbacks, rage.
Bells ring in the form of words said, words unsaid, information from my quest for answers, meaning.

It’s the tantrum that persists about Luke’s death.

A patient and skilled therapist is helpful...
”There’s always information in a tantrum. Let the rubble fly and the pearl will reveal itself”

I journal to sort and order the chaos within the maelstrom in search of said pearl.

The worst is when the ball is stuck in this clunky machine.
The flashing and clicking intensifies but the ball won’t release to find a new temporary slot of serenity.
This requires an intervention, but I’m reluctant, after all I am the girl that will lie for hours in extreme bilious discomfort before I surrender to inevitable vomiting.

For weeks I have done the same with my emotions.
The tantrum is hard, uncomfortable.
But I am uneasy, distracted, fretful and…
I need to cry.
Not the daily tear across my cheek crying that just eases the pressure (I call that maintenance crying).
This requires tsunami crying, complete with convulsions, hopelessness, snot and drawl.

I need a shock to my polyvagal system to release.
This shock can be delivered by drugs, alcohol, cutting or inducing a gag reflex.
I use film.

Tonight it’s a dog movie.
An incredible journey plot, Netflix informs me.
I assume that the outcome will be death or reunion, and in my newly found dog-crazy-lady skin, either will do the trick.

Reunion it is.
The thing I long for most.
…And we’re off!

Here’s the highlights of tonight’s tantrum…

After 2.5 years of longing and fearing the worst, they are reunited.
I’ve had 8 years, 7 months, 5 days of fucking longing!

My chest aches and I sob at the reunion of this TV dog and her human.
I mean, anyone would… but this is different.

On one level it is joyous to witness reunion after all hope is lost.
On a deeper level I realize that my entire being is, in truth, holding out for this miracle.
I can’t give up on you!
Where are you, Luke?
Are you traversing seemingly impossible territory to find a way back?
Or have you found peace elsewhere? I hate to even write that!
Am I awful for not letting you go?
If this dog can do it, why can’t you?

Welcome to grief crazed madness!

I wish this was not our fate.
I wish that the drugs had never found you.
Or am I selfish for wishing away something that made you feel good? Whole?
Did they make you feel good? Whole?
You were not on this earth for my personal entertainment.
The choices were yours to make.
Was it all my fault?
Oh, I‘ll be fucked if I know which way to turn as I thrash and spiral.

Welcome to the grief crazed madness of a Mother of a dead drug user!

Either way, I wish none of it was so, and I long for you .
And I know it will always be so.
It’s just SO fucked up!

Welcome to my 3,139 day long tantrum!

This exact tantrum is perpetually within me, constantly leaning against me in some form.
Sometimes it’s nestled in a mis-matched slot.
Sometimes it’s violently coursing through me.
Sometimes it’s stuck and I just need to let it rip.

It’s exhausting.